Good Intentions
by Zephyr5
Summary: “Wonderful – you’re both back.” The glare Sereda levelled at Teagan could have felled a charging bronto at a hundred paces and was, she admitted to herself as he recoiled in surprise, probably undeserved. A variation on the Fort Drakon rescue.


**Rated for**: My peace of mind (T)

**Spoilers for**: Fort Drakon (or the whole game if you read the AN at the end)

**Other notes**: This is Thessali's fault. Utterly and entirely. I have no idea how I did on the humour stakes, but at least I now have my dwarf female's path through the game planned out – silver linings and all that…just need to stop writing fic and play her.

Hope you enjoy Thessali :D

* * *

Sereda and Alistair were…not in the best of shape, frankly. Then again, they _had_, not five hours before, both been rather roughly apprehended (knocked unconscious), and then literally hauled to Fort Drakon.

Where they'd been stripped and, because the jobs in any such place tend to attract a particular kind of person, knocked about some more. A _lot_ more in Sereda's case, though she'd at least put up enough of a fight to stop them getting any other ideas.

Neither she nor Alistair had been prepared to wait, either for even _more_ guards to come and force the issue, or for any of their companions to come and 'save' them. Sereda had become quite adept at saving herself, thank-you-very-much, and if she'd managed to survive the Deep Roads alone long enough to find Duncan – what seemed like a lifetime ago – she'd be damned if she couldn't get out of a mere surfacer fort with Alistair's help.

In the end their escape had gone so well she'd been suspicious, paranoia doing as much to keep her alert and moving as adrenaline. That they hadn't run into any of their companions as they'd left had been disheartening – were they, the two most important people of this whole endeavour, the _Grey Wardens_, considered expendable? – but not, immediately, worrying. Fort Drakon had quite the reputation after all, so perhaps the others had simply been trying to come up with a workable plan…

Listening to the heated discussion that she and Alistair had just opened the door onto, however, was making Sereda rather glad that none of their companions _had_ managed to get their act together.

Surely Zevran couldn't _truly_ believe that the guards would think he and Oghren were twins – even from a travelling circus? Then again, Zevran _did_ have a knack for making the unbelievable sound believable…even when you _knew_ he was pulling the truth into a shape a contortionist would envy. And if reason and lying through his teeth failed, Oghren was no slouch in a fight, drunk or otherwise.

As for Morrigan's suggestion that they pretend to be delivering something from the Weaver's Guild – followed by Wynne's elaboration that said 'something' be scarves – surely no one but an utter fool would believe them for a moment? Still…they were trying to bluff their way past men who'd let two prisoners walk out in borrowed armour – or at least, had it still been necessary, that was the quality of intellect they would have been faced with. Not that they could know that.

Sten, typically, seemed stoically prepared to storm the fort on his own, though Shale's grumbling voice cut – briefly – across the debate to side with him. Though the mental image of one – or even two – people storming the fort alone was utterly laughable, somehow Sereda couldn't quite convince herself that if anyone _could_ do it, it wouldn't be Sten and Shale. Both formidable in their own right, against a garrison of soldiers whose usual enemies were unarmed, unclothed and, often as not unconscious… No – scary as the thought was, she could imagine Sten and Shale successfully, and almost cheerfully, slaughtering their way through the fort. If only to emphasise their views, once more, on how unsuited she was for 'real' – which was to say, toe-to-toe, brute force – combat.

The only idea that seemed at all reasonable was Leliana's suggestion that she pretend to be delivering a new mabari to the fort's kennels – and that was only reasonable because the bard was Orlesian, and apparently quite unaware of just how detailed the records required were when it came to transferring one of the dogs beloved of the Ferelden nation. Sereda herself hadn't known – not until the kennel master at Ostagar had offered to try and imprint the sick mabari to her, if it survived, and Ser Jory had come over all goggle-eyed and protesting. True, his protests had probably been as much jealousy as anything else – mabari being such a status symbol in Ferelden – but the issue of paperwork had still come up, and for want of things to talk about that weren't related to the Grey Wardens, she'd asked Alistair about it later, after the dog had sought her out himself.

The discussion was turning into an argument now, sarcastic commentary and outright insults beginning to overtake the more serious heart of the matter.

Though the point was moot enough now, Sereda could feel her throbbing headache mingling with her infuriated disbelief that she might have trusted these _fools_ to _rescue_ her. Ha! A muscle just below her right eye began to tic. She and Alistair would've been nothing more than the bloody scraps of countless other victims before this lot had gotten their act together.

She wasn't aware of her hands reaching for her weapons, her intention to beat some sense into the blasted lot of them, until Alistair's hand's landed on her shoulders, comforting as much as restraining.

"I think I actually _understand_ that saying about good intentions paving the road to hell now." He muttered.

Sereda couldn't help it. She snorted – and, oh, _Ancestors_ but it _hurt_ thanks to the damage the guards had done to her ribs – then began chortling so hard that she couldn't tell whether the tears streaming down her face were from amusement, pain or despair.

She barely even registered the reactions of her companions as their argument came to an abrupt halt, and Alistair's urgent calls for Wynne to heal her were lost in the sound of her own choking laughter. The sudden shock of being healed – like having a bucket of icy water flung _through_ her – however, was not a sensation easily missed. It left her gasping, not just because of the feeling, but because she'd been laughing too hard to breathe.

But now everyone was staring at her, and all Sereda wanted was to go somewhere nice and _peaceful_ for the next few hours, and she had a horrible suspicion everyone was going to start asking questions she didn't want to answer – and _Alistair_, blight it all, was still holding onto her shoulders, so she couldn't simply turn and flee.

His grip was also going to make it awkward when she attempted to stove in the kneecaps, pelvis, chest and face – in that order – of the first person to ask if she was 'alright'.

Wynne's healing might have done wonders for her damaged ribs, but her concussion was rocking and rolling with gleeful abandon, and she wasn't going to forgive any of the idiots who'd utterly _failed_ – _epically failed_, as the criers in Orzammar might have declared – to be of any use at all in extricating her and Alistair from an unutterably nasty situation. Not until the concussion and the rest of the pain went away and let her forget everything that _could_ have happened to them both – if they'd made the mistake of waiting like helpless nugs for a doomed rescue attempt.

Sereda glared at them all – and only marginally less harshly at Wynne, for all the mage had just patched her up – for once not swayed in the slightest by her mabari's pathetically-happy-to-see-her expression. Behind her Alistair hissed, his shudder felt through the hands on her shoulders, as Wynne also healed him. Strange, Sereda thought, still glaring from one to another of the rest of her companions, how such a feeling could go almost entirely without notice in the heat of battle.

"Wonderful – you're both back." The glare Sereda levelled at Teagan could have felled a charging bronto at a hundred paces and was, she admitted to herself as he recoiled in surprise, probably undeserved. "I'll…ah, just go and let Eamon know."

Teagan fled.

Sereda snorted at his hasty departure. At least her companions were made of stern enough stuff to not crumble at a 'mere' glare – even if it seemed they couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery. Although in Oghren's case it would be deliberate – he wouldn't want to share.

"I don't want to see, hear, smell or even _imagine_ the presence of someone else until after sunup tomorrow." Sereda growled. "Someone better go tell Eamon _that_ as well." They stared at her, mostly a portrait of surprise and hesitance, and not one of them volunteered – as if they suspected this was some kind of trick, and the first volunteer was going to find themselves cut down to size. Dwarva size.

"I'll go." Alistair said with a sigh, his hands leaving her shoulders at last. "Promise me you won't kill them all the moment I'm out of sight?" Sereda half-turned, twisting her head to frown up at him. She constantly forgot just how willing and quick he was to forgive, if no lasting harm had been done. She, on the other hand, nursed her injuries and held onto her grievances like any good dwarf. That lingering lack of trust from her brother's manipulations was a large part of why she hadn't suggested they wait for rescue. Having been proven so dramatically correct in her mistrust, she knew she would find it even harder to trust her companions again.

With the exception of Alistair. But then he _always_ seemed to be the exception.

"Maim them?" He shook his head, a faint smile on his lips, apparently mistaking the seriousness of her voice as a bluff. "Even a little?" He shook his head again. "Not even Zevran?" This time he looked torn, but with a sigh he shook his head firmly once more. "Hmph." She scowled. "Fine. I'm going to my room." Expression dark, the thump of her headache beating to the tempo of her steps, Sereda stomped up the nearby stairs, pausing on the upper landing that Teagan had fled from. "Anyone disturbs me before sunup tomorrow," she snarled down at the varied members of her group, "all bets are _off_."

* * *

**AN**: Guh… I didn't do comprehensive testing of the different bluffing strategies of all the companions (the character whose save I used to do what testing I did had been betrayed by Zevran, and for some reason Shale was never presented as an option), so different combinations may well manage to come up with something other than the apparently generic 'we have a delivery of x from y' bluff that most companions seem to have.

I was also going to try and end with some Fem!Aeducan/Alistair smut… Went about as well as the companions' rescue attempt. Sereda's temper wasn't having it. Or rather, she didn't want to exempt Alistair from her warning in front of the others, and I wanted a damn _end_ to the fic before it launched itself at the landsmeet with a dwarva battlecry, which would inevitably have happened if I'd started with the scene breaks and POV changes.

**Briefly about Sereda (for anyone interested)**: Sereda Aeducan, exiled daughter of King Endrin Aeducan, older sister of Bhelen Aeducan. Trust issues/paranoia thanks to dwarva politics in general and Bhelen's manipulations in particular (no Aeducan/Gorim here folks). No great love or hate for humans, elvhen or dwarva – she'll rob them and manipulate them all equally. Does the 'right' thing where possible, but not afraid to make quick, unpopular decisions, so: was going to kill the werewolves then changed her mind when she learned how Zathrian was trying to use her to do his 'dirty work'; killed Connor rather than risk more trouble in Redcliffe (also KO'd Isolde when she tried to stop her); destroyed the Anvil, but made Bhelen king (because despite Harrowmont's efforts to save her, she thinks as far as dwarva politics are concerned, next to Bhelen he's a nug next to a deepstalker). As far as the 'post landsmeet' game decisions go: executed Loghain and set Alistair up as king with Anora; refused Morrigan's offer; left Alistair at the gates (as much due to trust issues with her other companions as to keep him safe) and consequently died.


End file.
